The Frenchman (Crime Royalty Romance Book 1) (34 page)

I sighed. My cab would be here soon. I should stuff some more clothes in the box I had dug up. Marie could ship them after I left (and maybe sneak in some croissants).

I still couldn’t quite believe how events had unfolded.

Whatever happened after I left my father’s restaurant, whatever Laurent had said, Marie had had the charges dropped against Georges Messette one hour before his arraignment.

Three weeks ago
.

The two must have come up with some plan, some way to destroy the evidence that Marie had so carefully crafted without implicating her, because she was never charged with anything. As for Bastien, Marie had had a conversation with him after I told her about his involvement with getting the evidence room recordings. I am sure they reached an agreement that stipulated neither would tell on the other. (I did not tell her that Louis had no doubt already guaranteed Bastien’s silence.) I wouldn’t have believed Marie would let a dirty cop off, but she announced the day after Georges was released that she was taking a leave of absence from the police force. She told me this after arriving back at the apartment that morning in the same clothes she’d wore the day before, with joy on her face, the likes of which I had never seen. I was shocked by her announcement, momentarily.

After years of living a mistaken life, she knew perfectly well what she really wanted—my father. A family.

She pulled me to her, and didn’t let me go for a long time.

“Do you think you will ever forgive me?” she asked, tears in her eyes.

“Do you think you will ever realize there is nothing to forgive?” I asked, cheekily. I meant that.

I knew what it felt like to think you had no control over your own destiny. To have it rest in the hands of someone else.

That I could walk away free was a lie. But I was walking away with who I was still intact; and maybe even a better me.

Louis had stuck to our deal. He let me go in exchange for Georges’s freedom. In a few bitter moments, I told myself his heart was too small. But I knew better—I felt his expansive, loving realm in moments when we’d made love, when he held my heart in his hands and cherished it. He was capable of so much more. He just didn’t have the courage to give it, or he didn’t want to.

Marie and I had one conversation about Louis after she’d left the force. It was short and sweet. She’d said, “If you love your Messette, you should fight to be with him.”

I looked her square in the eye and said, “I am.”

The best part of the past few weeks was spending time together with a mother and a father. It was strange and awkward, witnessing the budding love of two people who gave birth to you, both of whom love you wholly and completely without really knowing you, both of whom have no idea how to trust.

Laurent showed me around his restaurant, and admitted, yes, he had been behind my tutor switch-up, which first led me to Little Clam—I didn’t ask how he knew so much about me (unable to process the fact that I’d been
watched
by more than one powerful man). He said he canceled as soon as he realized one of Louis’s men was tailing me, as he was not yet ready, then, to lose his retirement cover. Of course a father keeps tabs on his daughter, he added, with passion, mentioning that he admired Louis, and hoped things worked out for us. I let that go, too, suspecting Marie had probably filled him on what had happened between us. Instead, I focused on how I was grounded hard and fast by the fact that we shared a similar love of food. It was something we could build on. Something I looked forward to building on. Slowly.

But now, I thought, glancing around Marie’s apartment, it was time to visit my other family. How loved I was—how blessed.

I gathered my things quickly, and locked the door behind me. Marie and Laurent had left for a weekend trip to wine country, not having a clue about my last-minute plans. I sent an email to them less than an hour ago explaining that I missed my mom and friends, and that I would be back when the time felt right.

The cab was waiting for me, and I took a deep breath, not looking at the building, or at the bistro across the street, as I got in. What was the point of looking back at the tunnel of my heart? I knew it would stretch across the ocean, vacant—the tollbooth manned forever, waiting for one man to come pay the fee.

I admired the port one last time as we sped past on our way to the airport highway. Flashes of the dance district, business buildings, sailboats, and the Messette compound. The sea sparkled blue, and seagulls flew up in a crowded rush. Cars sped past.

The closer we drew to the airport, the better I felt.

Standing in line, I knew once and for all that I’d done the right thing. The booking agent examined my passport photo and me. I doubt she could see the difference, though I knew I was no longer that girl.

Louis had accused me of lying to myself throughout our love affair. And I had beaten myself up for wanting to lose myself in him. For wanting to hide in him.

But we’d both been wrong.

Love
is
blindness.

I wanted him no matter who he was, or where he came from, or the danger he posed. And I’d wanted him even when he held back from me—hoping, believing we were
in love
.

As I passed through security I felt a moment of panic, held on to it, and then let it go.

The loss wasn’t real. I’d never really had anything to lose.

I took my time in the snack shop. Coming here, I ended up with too many magazines crammed in the pocket in front of me, which stole legroom. But I was overwhelmed with a sudden appetite for them. I bought five of my favorites and loaded down, found a seat near the gate, as I’ve always had an irrational fear of missing a flight.

I removed my long cardigan and adjusted my snug scoop neck shirt. I glanced at the woman across from me, a middle-aged lady watching me settle in. We shared a smile.

“Where are you headed?”

“Austin. How about you?”

“Atlanta.”

It was nice to speak smooth English. We swapped stories about places we’d seen in France before we slid into a comfortable silence.

I had to flip through at least two of the magazines, tearing out keeper recipes so I could recycle the rest before boarding. I got to work.

Reading, salivating, tearing. Reading, tearing. I was into the third magazine when I came across a recipe for a cheesecake that gave me pause. The woman across from me said, “You keeping all those? Wow you’ve got some appetite.”

I looked up at her.

“
Oui
, she is very greedy,” thrummed a deep voice in my ear.

My eyes popped wide open, my heart stopped. The lady across from me wore a similar expression.

I peered over my shoulder into the seat behind me.

Louis.

I turned forward, frozen, staring at my fellow passenger without seeing her.

Impossible.

He shifted, and yes, oh my God, he stepped around the row of seats and slid in next to me.

His scent. It was him. I peered down at his large thigh, just a millimeter from mine. His shoulder touched mine and I clutched my neck.

“You must be very, very hungry,
non
?” he asked quietly.

Slowly, very slowly, I lifted my face up and over, and met his eyes. I didn’t know what I would see there, or what I wanted to see there.

He was still so confident from within, but . . . wait, there was something very different. He was confident in himself, not in us. He was nervous.

“
Bonjour
,” he said, quietly, sticking his hand out. Pink flushing on his cheeks. “My name is Louis Messette.”

I didn’t move.

I looked down at his hand, and peered back into his eyes.

What are you doing here?!
I pleaded.

You heart is safe with me
, he pleaded in return.

I wasn’t imagining it.

We floated there, suspended on the promise of unspoken words.

In one powerful breath of life I felt all the love I had for him. It sent goosebumps down my arms. Hope spread with a fury of determination. He had much to prove. So did I.

Slowly I slid my hand into his.

He raised it to his lips and kissed it lightly. “
Enchanté
.” He placed his other one over top and stared in my eyes earnestly. “I am from Corsica, but I live in Toulon. I play rugby. My family is very unscrupulous. I am also very rich.” He added the last bit with that sly tilt of his head I was so fond of. My heart was pounding.

“I also have a very big . . .” Louis released his hold of me and motioned length using both of his large hands—the lady’s eyes grew even wider. “. . .
boat
,” he added. I heard her gasp.

I laughed because I couldn’t help myself, because that’s what he gave me, what he always gave me: exhilaration.

The flight attendant called for first class to board.

“I only discovered I would be flying to Austin today with no notice,” he whispered. “I was away at an athletic camp.”

My mouth popped open. He had booked the same flight? How did he . . . Wait, was he having me watched? All this time? That’s the only way he’d have learned I booked a flight. And now here he was.

So that’s what took him so long? A sports camp?

My brow furrowed.

He looked at the gate, and at the line forming to board. I read doubt in his eyes. My magazines slid from beside me onto the floor, startling me.

Glancing at the magazines and back at me, he said, quickly, “Tell me, you like to cook,
n’est-ce pas
?”

I nodded.

“Is it very hard?”

I swallowed. “Wh-what do you mean?”

He stared up at me from under his brow.

“Do you think you could teach someone like me to cook?”

Oxygen and hope rushed back to revive my withered heart. My nose began to burn.

“Oh honey,” said the woman across from us, pointing up and down. “With all you got goin’ on you don’t need to worry about getting your hands dirty in the kitchen.”

He gazed at me, amused, from under his thick brow.

“I give you an offer now. I hate flying. I have a car waiting outside to take us to my big boat. Will you sail with me to America and teach me to cook?”

I couldn’t breathe.

“I am a fast learner, and promise to cook for you delicious dishes,” he was touching my face with his hands. “You will never get enough.”

Before I could answer, he claimed my mouth, as he always had when greeting me—the moments when I knew how he really felt—only, it held a question.

My heart answered. I opened my mouth, letting him taste me. He grasped my face with his strong hands, and finished his sensual poem. When he was done, he spoke into my mouth. “My greedy Fleur. I will always feed your appetite, I promise.”

He leaned back a little and released my face. “But I ask one thing. If I learn to cook before we get to America, we turn the boat around, come back to Toulon together and forget America. Deal?”

I glanced at the passenger who was nodding wildly at me as she collected her belongings. We were the last two left to board.

Looks like I would be missing my flight after all.

I turned to Louis, smiled and said, “Deal.”

I hope you enjoyed
The Frenchman
. Please support me by providing a comment or two on Amazon.com. If you’d like to know about my next release, shoot me your email on the sign-up list at
lesleyyoungbooks.com
. I can’t tell you how much I love to hear from readers. The best place to reach me is at
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@lesleyyoungbks
.

Books by Lesley Young

The Frenchman (#1 Crime Royalty Romance)

The Australian (#2 Crime Royalty Romance)

The American (#3 Crime Royalty Romance)—Coming Soon

Sky’s End (#1 Cassiel Winters Series)

Sky’s Surrender (#2 Cassiel Winters Series)—Coming Soon

Read on for a sample chapter of the next book in Lesley Young’s Crime Royalty Series: The Australian.

by Lesley Young

Chapter One

I glanced at the time on my cell phone and frowned. My temp agency had notified me of this job prospect last-minute, yet I had managed to arrive within one minute of the appointed time, during Sydney’s rush-hour traffic no less. Meanwhile, I glanced at the closed door several feet from where I sat, the employer was unable to stay on schedule posing a mere series of interview questions.
Vexing
. The result: I was detained with no useful or productive way to occupy my mind.

My thoughts returned, pointlessly, to retrace events which had led to my current circumstances, and the dilemma I now faced.

I moved to Australia because of a movie. Most people raise their eyebrows at this. For them, a movie is not a proper reason to decide on a new geographical location to call home. However, that is precisely
why
I made the decision. I wanted to start my new life the way I meant to go on: full of spontaneity.

The movie was
Muriel’s Wedding
. Muriel (Toni Collette’s breakout role) is an unpopular, ABBA-obsessed girl who makes a series of illogical decisions driven by the ardent desire to be loved. I do not relate to the character at all, but my mother did. It was her favorite movie.

In fact, she watched it a few times every year, and depending on the narcotic she had indulged in, either slurred her way through the songs or gesticulated wildly through the “Waterloo” dance routine. She never made it to the end, passing out before Muriel, who, having gained a greater sense of self, comes back to rescue her best friend in the dumpy beachside town. I could only appreciate this denouement like someone might appreciate a Vermeer painting—out of time and place.

The day of my mother’s funeral, sitting in our living room in the CrissCross trailer park in upstate New York, I’d spotted the VHS tape on the crate in front of the TV. Uncertain what else I should be doing, I popped it in and hit
play
. Miss Moneypenny, my Norwegian Forest Cat, jumped up and nestled in beside me. Freddy, the compound manager and my mother’s occasional sugar daddy, as she called him, lingered in the kitchen.